


Facts and Figures

by peg22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Humor, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1220071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peg22/pseuds/peg22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's figured it out, and heads over to 221B to confront Sherlock. As usual, nothing ever goes quite as planned. Mainly because they keep accidentally kissing. Mrs. Hudson makes tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Facts and Figures

John finally figured it out on the way to work. Ironic, really, since he’d only started working again after Sherlock . . . what, died? didn’t die? almost died? disappeared? almost disappeared? bloody cocked it all up?

After the resurrection, he’d kept up a few hours at the clinic, mainly to prove to Sherlock (which really meant to himself) that he, Dr. John Watson, had not only survived watching his best friend take a header into the wind, but had turned his own sails to the future. Plus there was Mary. He was now a we. Not he and Sherlock we. He and Mary we. Which quickly turned into an us. As in John and Mary and Sherlock. Or Sherlock, John and Mary. So far his friend had not irrevocably injured, irked, or irritated his fiancée – but it was early days yet. 

And so when, on a rainy London morning in the middle of March, he’d figured it out, he waved the cab past the clinic, where he knew the betrothed us was already checking in patients, and headed instead to 221B.

He found Sherlock in bed. Sound asleep. He paced a bit. Sat a bit. Mrs. Hudson brought a pot of tea, looked at John, at the open bedroom door, back at John, and slipped quietly downstairs, muttering to herself. He poured a cup of tea. He paced a bit more. He stood at the bedroom door, counting breaths, checking his watch. He didn’t even notice that he had crossed the room and was standing at the edge of the bed, staring at the tangled hair and ridiculous cheekbones, until a hand touched his arm.

“9:08. It was 9:08 the last time you checked and quite possibly the time before.” Sherlock slipped his fingers around John’s wrist. “Your pulse is erratic and your skin is damp. It can’t be the tea, because you haven’t touched it. Mrs. Hudson didn’t leave you a biscuit, and you didn’t cross the kitchen more than once. So . . .”

Sherlock swept the sheet down from his shoulder, turned and sat up. “Either you’ve come down with a particularly virulent strain of flu and want to give it to me as a final bit of revenge, or you’ve finally talked yourself out of the ridiculous notion of actually marrying Mary – marry, Mary, hmmm, wonder who will be the merrier?” He stopped a moment and looked up at John.

John stood, hands at his side, his hands tight fists. “Shut up, Sherlock.” It was barely a whisper.

Sherlock reached behind him for his robe, slid into it, and stood up. He walked past John. “It’s not the flu, then?” He walked into the living room. “Tea’s gone cold.”

John followed Sherlock, standing behind his chair. Sherlock grabbed his violin and sat down. “Oh sit down, John. Whatever this is that has you three shades of, dare I say pink, cannot be as bad as . . ."

“Watching you die?” John’s voice was low. “Not as bad as that, eh?”

“We’re back there, are we?”

“Never left.”

Sherlock put the violin down and sat up in the chair. “John, I . . .”

“You know what’s funny?” John came around the chair and stood in front of it, looking down at Sherlock. “What’s funny is that I know you did it on purpose. I know you set out to deliberately ruin my life-“

“-John, I . . .” Sherlock tried to speak, but John pushed closer, his legs pressed against Sherlock’s knees. 

“You don’t get to talk. You always talk. Not today.”

Sherlock lifted his hands in resignation, and sat back farther into the seat.

John let out a breath. Clasped and unclasped his hands. Looked out the window. Down at Sherlock. He watched as Sherlock tried to clasp his own hands together, tried to put his elbows on the arms of the chair, but instead just crossed his arms in front of him.

John inched closer. “I know you did, you know you did, Mycroft knows you did, hell, the whole bloody Holmes family knows you did.”

“Now that is not technically accurate, I do believe there was a cousin . . .”

John moved closer, forcing Sherlock back into the chair. Sherlock’s arms slipped down and he let them rest on either side of John’s legs.

“John . . .”

John leaned down further, placed his hands on either side of the chair. “The funny thing is, though-“

“There are two funny things?”

John closed his eyes and sighed.

Sherlock moved his hands from John’s legs to his chest. “Well, you did say the funny thing and then now here’s another funny thing–” 

John stopped the talking the only way he could. The only way he’d been thinking about all morning. The only way that made sense. Of now. Of then. Of all of it. He gave Sherlock’s mouth something else to do.

At first Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he pressed his hands against John’s chest. John just leaned in more and as the kiss deepened, Sherlock’s hands slid around to John’s back. When John forced Sherlock’s mouth open, Sherlock pulled John against him tighter. 

John heard Sherlock moan, low and deep, and he froze. “No . . . I don’t . . .” he hissed against Sherlock’s mouth. He struggled to get his hands on something solid, to get space, to get away. He shoved hard, and tried to stand. Sherlock reached out to steady him, but John twisted away and stumbled back into his chair.

They sat staring at each other for a moment. John tried to steady his breathing, and Sherlock lifted a finger to his lip. He looked at John and opened his mouth, but John held up a finger.

“No, not a word.” John scrubbed a hand across his face, already sore from Sherlock’s . . .

“Stubble.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John rubbed his jaw. “You have stubble.”

Sherlock stood and tugged his robe together. “And you’re an idiot.” He walked to the door. “Mrs. Hudson . . . we need another pot of tea. And biscuits this time, please.”

He turned back around to John. “Of course I have stubble. You woke me from a sound sleep with your neurotic ambling about.”

“ Neurotic? I don’t think . . .”

“No, you don’t think. Which is why I have to.”

“Good thinking calling Mrs. Hudson up here. Really? Now?”

“Now? Of course now. I need a cup of tea and an entire sleeve of biscuits. You need something stronger, as well as some kind of cream for your face, unless you want your Mary to be speculating where and what and dare I say who you’ve been doing this morning.”

“Who I’ve been . . .”

Sherlock walked over and stood in front of John. “Yes, who.”

“You.” John sat up in the chair. “You. Someday Sherlock you will let me speak.”

“Not good odds, John.” Sherlock moved closer. “Don’t take that bet.”

“But I have . . . things . . . to say.”

Sherlock backed up a step and flung himself into his chair. “Have it your way. Say . . . things.”

John struggled to his feet and walked around to the back of his chair. He needed distance. “You didn’t trust me.”

Sherlock crossed his legs and clasped his hands together. “I do trust you.”

“But you didn’t. You didn’t trust me enough to keep your secret. And I know why.”

“Good on you. Now where’s that tea?”

“Because you know.”

Sherlock rose and walked to the door. “Mrs. Hudson, we may die of thirst soon.”

Mrs. Hudson appeared, handed Sherlock the tray with a frown, and turned around and marched back downstairs.

“Odd.” Sherlock put the tea on the table next to John’s chair. “Tea?”

“You knew I couldn’t possibly give the performance you needed if I knew you were alive.”

Sherlock poured a cup and sat back down in his chair. “And how is this new information?”

John came back around his chair and sat. “Because you know and I know and before we . . .”

“Smooched? Snogged? Bussed?”

“Kissed. It was a kiss.” John scrubbed his face. “You needed me broken . . .”

“John, I . . .”

“Because the one person who could verify that Sherlock Holmes was actually dead, is the one person in the whole bloody universe who would suffer the most – the one who actually gives a damn, who actually . . .”

Sherlock stood. “Please . . . I don't . . .”

John rubbed his hands down his thighs. Stood. Let out a breath. Sherlock stood watching, waiting.

“You already knew I was in love with you and you used that information to ruin my life.” John wanted to scream but it came like a whisper. “And now you’ve ruined it all over again by coming back.”

Sherlock set the teacup on the table and took a step toward John. He placed his hands on John’s shoulders. “I never meant . . .”

John pushed him hard. “You always meant. Always.” He shoved his chest. Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulders to stop from falling and they both landed in the chair.

John struggled, but Sherlock held him down. They were nose to nose, John seething, Sherlock smiling. And Sherlock tilted his head and John closed his eyes and it all happened again. The taste of tea, as teeth scraped against lips and hands scrambled for skin and this time they both tumbled from the roof, over and over again.

John’s foot suddenly lost its grip on the rug, his leg twisted, and he slid awkwardly towards the floor, his other leg trapped under Sherlock’s. “Wait . . .” He tried to stop at the same time Sherlock tried to pull him back, but that just bent his leg further and he hissed in pain and Sherlock let him go and he tumbled the rest of the way to the floor. 

“Sorry, my leg . . .” He rolled to his side, massaging his thigh.

Sherlock stood and stepped around John. “Bedroom?”

John turned onto his back and breathed. “Wait . . . we should . . .”

Sherlock was breathing hard as well. “Yes, of course. Bedroom?”

“Just like that, then?” John struggled to an elbow.

“Well, better than that, I hope, but yes.”

John sat up all the way. “So I tell you something that was excruciatingly difficult and the response I get is, “Fancy a shag?”

Sherlock reached down and pulled John to his feet. Pulled him against his chest. “I prefer my declarations to come post-coital.”

“And this works for you?” John felt himself being maneuvered toward the bedroom. 

“Well, you know my methods.”

“And you’ve got nothing to say in return?”

They were at the bedroom door. Sherlock let go of John and faced him. “I am loathe to admit it but you are right on almost every score and I am mortified and ashamed that I could use the knowledge of your heart against you. But what you have failed to deduce, due I’m sure in no small part to the pedestrian synapses you have to work with . . .”

“Foreplay, right? This is your foreplay?”

“I’m just trying to show you that you are not alone in this knowledge. Or in the sentiment. But the problem is that my own acknowledgement comes with certain failure, taking your current situation into consideration. . .”

“My current situation? My current . . . you bring that up now?”

“This is why post is preferable to pre.”

John ducked under Sherlock’s arm and walked back into the living room. He turned around. “You really think I can marry . . . after . . .”

“After what?”

“After what’s happened.”

Sherlock came back into the living room. “What’s happened?”

“This. You. Us.”

Sherlock took his teacup and sat again in his chair. “Us? That it took you all this time to decide you’ve figured us out – helped along no doubt by my own declaration, although I hadn’t really got around to the juicy bits – only serves as proof that you do indeed putter all about London in an incredible bubble of oblivion.” He tipped his cup to John.

“I don’t even know what to say to that.” John sat back down in his chair. He sighed. Tapped on the arms of the chair. After a moment he said, “Juicy bits?”

“Very juicy.”

“Care to overshare?”

“Not here.”

“Then where?”

“You know where.”

“I don’t. Apparently there is a bubble that prevents me.”

Sherlock set his teacup down hard. “Then why are you here, John?”

“You know why I’m here.”

“I know why you think you’re here.”

“I’m here because I wanted to tell you I know you tried to ruin my life and I forgive you.”

“Really? What was the kissing then? The John Watson seal of approval?”

“The kissing was . . .”

Sherlock leaned forward in the chair. “Unexpected?”

John shifted in his chair. “Well, yes.”

“Passionate?”

“Yes . . .”

“Repeatable?” Sherlock leaned further.

“Nice.” John crossed his hands in his lap, smiling. 

“Nice?” Sherlock stood. “Nice? You finally decide to act upon the feelings that everyone from Molly to Mycroft to Garrett has noticed-“

“Greg.”

“What?”

“Greg, his name is Greg.”

“I’m sure he knows, too. The point is that you figure out the final piece in what I can only imagine for you is a blindingly difficult puzzle, you finally climb those stairs with some purpose, some hope of a future that differs from what you were told you deserve, a future where I have stood, waiting for any glimpse that what you know and what you see finally becomes what you feel, and when you do cross that threshold and reach for that future, reach for me – kiss me, all you can say is ‘nice?”

“You’re an ass.”

“And how is that news?” Sherlock shouted.

John stood, his hands at his side. “Sherlock, if the current circumstances, as you say, were different, I would ignore every rational bit of my nature, drag you back to the bedroom, and fuck every last word out of you.”

Sherlock moved closer, but remained silent.

John continued, slower, softer. “But you know I can’t. We can’t. For one thing there is Mary.”

“Which is your fault by the way.”

“My fault? What, shame on me for moving on with my life after you died?”

“I didn’t die.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? You didn’t trust me. I moved on. And now, instead of happily ever after with the woman I love, I’m in hell with the man I . . .”

“Say it.”

John let go of Sherlock’s arm. “With the man I . . . wish I could strangle and bend over that chair at the same time.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. “Do we need a safe word already?”

John could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck. He really could strangle Sherlock. It would get them nowhere. Besides, he’d already had a go in the restaurant when his dead friend had shown back up in the middle of his life. So, instead, he took all the sound from Sherlock’s mouth. Again.

This time it was different. This time it was slow. Both still had all the words that had been tossed around that room swirling in their heads. The declarations – incomplete for now – the accusations, plus all the echoes of all the other words they’d ever said to each other. They moved against each other, toward each other, breathing together, falling apart.

He’d phoned Mary from the cab, told her Sherlock had a case, needed his help. There had been no case. Just this. It was all changing and yet it all seemed just the same. But it would never be the same. Big fucking mess. 

The last words John heard in his own head, before Sherlock knelt in front of him, unzipping and tugging all in one movement, before the words became jumbled sounds of moaning and shouting and colours and light. . .

“Definitely not going in the blog.”


End file.
